I can still remember the very first moment I ever saw her. I remember the ignorant intelligence that dwelled sullenly beneath her beautiful, dark eyes. I remember that first meeting with her, and all of the other wonderful meetings that followed. And still, I cant help but think that perhaps it just mightve been better on everyone if I hadnt met her at all.
But the thing is, I did meet her.
Miles walked down the busy metropolitarian street, a tattered old brown suit on his frame and an equally old and tattered briefcase beneath his left arm. He had thick, horn-rimmed glasses on his face and hair that fell over one of his eyes. The left one, actually. His socks were of the white and black striped kind, and he had gloves without fingers on his skinny hands. He was an artist. And a damned good one, too.
Today, as the rabbit once said, he was late, late LATE for a very important date. A date with destiny, if one was inclined to think in such a manner. Miles didnt, so I guess we wont either. We shall say he is on a visit with a meaningful coincidence.
After checking his watch for a third time in fifteen point three seconds, Miles, who was now looking very much like a frightened young boy, stepped in front of a bus, which was rolling around at a frightening rate. Miles died instantly. His glasses were skewed about his face in a cliché manner, and his limbs followed suit. His briefcase, however, did a rather unorthodox thing; it landed right smack on the nads of 18 year old Andrew Stevens. He had watched the whole accident, and when the case landed right in his lap, he took it as destiny, as it was his way to believe in such things.
((btw, this is the intro to a story I had been playing with and then dropped. I shall post it here in the hopes that it might be reborn...So please excuse the use of 1st person in the opener. ))
